


Mages Moon

by pallysuune



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dog work, Farmer is on a hunt and is kind of dumb sometimes, Gen, Kidnapping, Rating May Change, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2020-12-16 16:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21038951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallysuune/pseuds/pallysuune
Summary: Mages have been going missing, but not turning back up as slaves - what usually happens to mages when they vanish off the streets. Farmer Cape is on a Hunt to find out what's going on. Alone, with no back up, it could be a very dangerous Hunt for him indeed.How can he get in deep enough to find out what is going on, but not too deep to get out again?





	1. Prologue

This was not entirely how he anticipated coming to Corus for the first time. 

Farmer Cape blinked large, dozy blue eyes as he strolled along. He was clad in a cityman's tunic and breeches instead of his uniform,and various mage charms, a heavy pack slung over one broad shoulder as he ambled along Temple Way, through the Lower City with all the wonder of a lad born and bred in the country. The city was big, as was to be expected, and bustling with even more people than Blue Harbor. Maybe more than Port Caynn, but he hadn't yet decided on that part. It seemed Corus had more people, but Port Caynn had more diversity in it’s way. Blue Harbor was the same - there were more kinds of people there, travelers and merchants from all different countries, where the capital seemed to have very few outsiders. It was interesting, but a little boring at the same time. He liked all the different colors and musics and food that came from the mixing of cultures. 

But, then, he wasn’t there to enjoy himself, was he? 

He was a Dog on a scent, after all. 

Farmer paused at a baker’s stall in the Daymarket, grinning winningly at the mot doing the selling, flicking a coin seemingly out of no where with a flourish to pay for his lunch, and then continued along, munching on a pasty. The blue of his Gift was unguarded, open for anyone who was looking to see. He didn’t attempt to hide it in the slightest. If anything, he was showing it off a little. 

By the time he found himself a nice little inn and paid for his room, he assumed he had garnered enough attention for himself.

Which was exactly what he wanted.

Mages being taken and sold away was hardly new. People with money would do a lot of things to get a decent mage in their employ, and few people cared how their slaves came to be slaves. It was a common, if disturbing, thing, and part of the reason Farmer had often hidden his power in the past. If it was just that, the Provost's Dogs would never have gotten involved. No, lately, mages of skill were going missing - and not showing up again. 

Farmer took a quick meal at an eating house, then settled into his room at the Lower City inn, accepting a nightcap drink from the innkeeper. He dipped a finger into it subtly. The faintest trace of a smile curled the corners of his mouth as he drank it, thanked the innkeep, and headed back to his room, already feeling the drug he'd sensed in it pulling at him, making his eyelids heavy. He'd barely stumbled into his bed before he was out. 

He woke in chains.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Corgi says a lot without anything actually happening.
> 
> I hope you guys like.
> 
> Edit: Goodness, I need a beta reader.

The chains were a surprise.

So was the hood over his head that kept him from seeing anything other than the dark fabric insides of what felt very similar to a bag thrown over his head and tied beneath his chin. His breath puffed back at him, heating the inside of the hood, making it all the more humid and difficult to breathe. It was distracting, certainly, but not the most pressing thing at the moment. No, the most immediate concern was the feeling of tight, heavy metal around his wrists.

He closed his eyes, focusing his attention on the cuffs, carefully reaching down as best he could so his fingers could brush over the cuffs. They were heavy, clumsy-feeling almost. Roughly made and designed for hard use. The edge of something dug the pad of his finger and he frowned, tracing it, first with his fingertip, then with the edge of his nail as it wound away from his limited reach. Runes. He tried to picture them in his mind and was fairly sure he recognized a few. Bindings. To test the theory, he urged a bit of his Gift into the cuffs, willing them to break. Instead, the magic fizzled out harmlessly.

Well, he _had_ anticipated that. If these Rats were doing something with mages, of course they would have spells to render their cargo safe to handle.

With that thought in mind, he turned his attention to whatever clues he could gather about where he was. The hood kept him from seeing anything, of course, but it kept him from any scents that might help to identify his location either. All he could smell was fabric and sweat, and not only did that do him little good, but it wasn’t very pleasant, either. He didn’t sense any movement, didn’t feel the sway and bump that would suggest he was in a cart or on a ship. Stationary, then. Stashed somewhere, likely. He opened his eyes again, but there was just the blackness of the hood. It was hard to tell if the fabric was simply that thick, or if it was dark beyond it, but he got no sense of anything through it at all. He was propped against a wall, sitting on something hard - either the floor or a bench. He wiggled a little, focused, trying to feel the edge of paving stones or bricks, but there was nothing, not even the ridges one would expect from a wooden surface. Likely dirt, then? He tried digging the heels of his boots in to verify it, and felt a little bit of purchase as they bit into whatever was under him.

He stopped then, compiling it all in his mind. He was fairly certain he was being held somewhere with hard packed dirt floors, with sturdy walls. There were no sounds he could hear that would suggest anyone else being held there with him, no shuffling or sniffling, or breathing besides his own that the hood kept loud around his own ears. His hands were bound by heavy, thick cuffs in front of him, with spells to stop magic use.

All in all, expected, but still not a good situation.

Letting out a slow breath, Farmer shifted his focus to himself. From the feel of it, he was wearing the same city clothes he’d been wearing before, though there were certainly things missing. The weight of his mage’s lens wasn’t where it usually sat on his chest, and the ear bob he’d been wearing that was charmed for distance communication was gone too - he was nearly glad for that one, it had felt strange to wear, he wasn’t used to it. He still had his belt on, but the feeling of his belt knife was gone, and there was something else that he couldn’t quite identify. He shifted to nudge it with his elbow. Ah, his belt pouch, though it was empty.

The expected things had been taken from him, and he wasn’t at all surprised by that. He had a few things up his sleeve, metaphorically speaking, though, and he needed to take stock of those.

Carefully, he slid a finger underneath his belt, feeling along the leather by his buckle. The knife was still there. That was something, at the very least. Next, he shifted his foot inside his boot, feeling the false insole move slightly. He couldn’t feel what was inside, but it was heartening to know that it didn’t appear anyone had tampered with it. He knew he’d packed a few of his ribbons in there, heavily embroidered with stored and stolen magic. That would be his greatest weapon.

If he could manage to get the cuffs off.

Some Dogs were as skilled and talented with lockpicks as any Rat. Farmer was not one of those. He could do a lot of things with his hands, but that just simply not one of them. The question then became how he would get out of them. They felt too sturdy for him to break. From what little he could tell, he thought there was a chain connecting the two cuffs. It was possible he could get through that, but that would still leave the runes holding his magic in check.

After a little while of trying to get his thoughts around the idea, he put it out of his mind. The fact of the matter was that he couldn’t escape just yet. After all, this was all part of his plan.

Mages were being kidnapped but they weren’t turning up in any of the expected places. The biggest thing that needed to be found out was what was happening to them. The best way to do that, he had decided, was to allow himself to be taken by this kidnapping ring, with the intention of being brought to where they were taking all the other mages. That was what it had all been about so far. How flashy he was with his magic while in Corus, how free he was with his coin, how trusting he had acted in allowing himself to be poisoned even though he knew the drink was corrupted.

That was the first name added to his mental list of those involved in this Hunt - Henrik Fisher, the innkeeper of the Dock’s Thorn on Rovers Street near the north bridge. The man was at the very least working for the kidnappers, if he wasn’t a part of their ring directly. He tried to remember who had suggested the Dock’s Thorn to him as a good place to stay that night, but he couldn’t recall any one person specifically. Not well enough to look for them later. He also had no way to tell time, and the drug had left him a little groggy, making it hard to judge even by his own body’s reaction. Still, there was no way he’d been out long enough for them to get him out of the city. Likely, he was still somewhere in the Lower City, near the docks, being kept in waiting for something. Probably a boat or something. That would be the easiest way to get cargo like him out of the city.

He had to say, he hadn’t gotten the nicest impression of Corus from his time there.

After a while of silence, he thought he heard something. It was entirely possible it could have been his imagination, but he’d thought he heard a rustle. Even if he had heard something, it could be a rat. Gods, he hoped it wasn’t a rat. The last thing he wanted was to be nibbled on. So he decided to do what he could to keep any four-legged rat away from him and to get any two-legged one to react - he began to hum.

Very loudly, and very out of tune.

Someone moved to his left and the toe of a boot jabbed painfully into his ribs. “Shut yer gob.”

“It is shut,” Farmer muttered, a thread of strain in his voice as he curled slightly to one side, instinctively moving to shield where he’d been so lightly kicked. “Can’t hum with your mouth open.”

The second kick was harder and landed on his hip. He hissed this time, wiggling away. “I said shut it, ya slop brained looby. Sarden mages.” The man sounded more like he was muttering to himself than yelling at Farmer now.

“Keep ‘im quiet.” The second voice wasn’t one that Farmer was expecting and he frowned beneath his hood, trying to pinpoint it. While the man’s came from beside him, this one was a woman’s, from some distance ahead. “They’ll be comin’ to look at him soon.”

“Who?” Farmer asked. He was expecting the blow before it fell this time, even if he didn’t know where he'd be struck. Across his face, as it turned out. What felt like the back of a knife struck him squarely on the cheek through the fabric of the hood, snapping his head to the side. That did actually shut him up for now. He tasted blood.

The cellar (he was guessing he was in a cellar) went silent again as both of his guards went quiet and still. Farmer thought, briefly, of annoying them farther, but decided against it, especially with how blood filled his mouth and he had no where to spit it. Better to cut his loses for the moment. He was betting he’d get some answers, if not a whole new set of questions, whenever this mysterious ‘they’ showed up.


	3. Chapter 2

His mouth tasted metallic. It took him a second to remember why. Groggy still, he’d slipped unconscious again. This time, despite the throbbing ache in his cheek, he felt more clear headed. Judging from how long the effects of whatever it was that had been put in his drink had lasted, he estimated the first time he woke was less than twelve hours after having ingested it. It was harder to guess now, though, long enough for the drug to wear off. Which, to be fair, wasn’t much of an estimate. 

He could hear someone moving around nearby. It sounded like the same cove as before, but it was hard to say for certain. He didn’t like all the uncertainty of the moment, but without more concrete evidence, preferably sight, he had very little he could go on. He spent a long while considering his predicament and any theories he had on what they might be doing with mages. It was notable that they were taking mages that were in sort of a middling range - not those who were at the top of their respective ranges, but not those with weaker Gifts either. No hedgewitches, to his knowledge, as well. And none of the mages had made appearances in the noble houses that one would expect to find them. The catching and selling of mages had long been a problem, one that was questionable under the law, but difficult to stop. This, though, this was something else. 

He was deep in thought about all of the unanswered questions, but still heard the sound of a door opening from somewhere above. A few minutes later, there was the heavy sound of boots on wooden stairs. The cove beside Farmer rose with a rustle of clothes and a scrape of boots on the dirt floor. 

“Just one, this time?” the rough, rasping voice of an older cove broke the stillness of the cellar. The rat who’d been standing beside him, he recognized his voice from before as the one who’d yelled at him and slapped him, stuttered out some excuses about needing to slow down a little, and how no one really ‘fit’ except him. While this was going on, the sound of boots came scuffling across the floor toward Farmer. A heavier step, and then a dragging - he had a limp, most likely on his right, but once again, it was hard to say for certain with his eyes covered. 

That wasn’t a concern for long, though. The black hood was pulled off his head, leaving him squinting against the light of a lantern hanging on the wall nearby. He was looking up at an older man with short, graying hair, mud-dark eyes, and a heavyset build. Clearly not the sort of man to miss meals, Farmer thought wryly. The man grabbed him by the chin, turning his head this way and that, like he was a colt at the market. “This was the one flaunting in the market earlier?” 

“Yeah, ‘s ‘im.” Farmer could see the man that had hit him now, a tan-skinned cove built like a river dodger, all powerful and broad. No wonder that hit hurt so much. Across the room, he spotted the mot he’d heard before too, stout and sturdy with short cropped hair and scars on her cheeks that looked like they might have come from bad skin as a child. She had a sword on her hip, unlike most commoners, and stood with the balanced weight of a fighter. Possibly a mercenary? 

He could see the room he was in now, too, and found he’d been right. Packed dirt floor and walls, with a network of roots on one. Probably a cellar, then, beneath some house. Not too close to the river, or it’d be far more damp than this, but definitely still somewhere in Corus. 

The man holding his chin dropped the bag and slapped his cheek none-too-gently. “Focus, lad. What’s your name?”

Farmer blinked dozy blue eyes up at him, silent for a moment, playing the part of groggy and unsure commoner, not Dog mage. “Kristoff Baker,” he answered slowly, giving the same name he’d given at the inn upon getting to Corus. 

The heavyset cove glanced over at the other for confirmation, when the man nodded, he returned it, seemingly satisfied. He snatched up the black bag from where it was on the floor. 

“I’d really rather you didn’t-” Farmer started, frowning at the bag. He received a kick in the ribs from the dodger for his trouble. And the bag, of course, which was shoved roughly over his head again and tied around his neck. Thankfully, it wasn’t tied too tight, at least. They weren’t _trying_ to kill him, after all. He could tell now that the fabric of the hood was just quite thick, since he could see nothing but pitch-black inside it. “Get the cart around front and get him loaded in. We need to be out of here before anyone catches wind.” 

“Do we need to be worryin’ ‘bout that?” the burr of the dodger aske, even as rough hands grabbed at Farmer’s arm, yanking him up to his feet.

“The’ Rogue’s people’ve been pokin’ into things,” said the mot. “Last thing we need is him and his gettin’ into this.” 

Farmer was being pulled along, shuffling and stumbling with each step. He was fair taller than the man holding on to him, making him cock awkwardly to the side from how the shorter man was holding his arm, so it was hard getting his long legs underneath him to walk properly. None of his captors seemed to care, nor did they seem very worried about talking in front of him. Probably didn’t expect him to know any of what they were talking about. 

“Deerborn would’a just wanted a cut, but this new cove,” the man who reminded Farmer of a river dodger spit on the floor before going on. “Him an’ th’ rest ‘a them snow-swivin’ Scanrans’d get all up in arms ‘bout it.” 

“Enough,” came the voice of the heavyset man. Farmer hadn’t heard him coming along behind them, too focused on the conversation and not falling on his face. “Shut your gobs and just get ‘im into the cart. We’ve got a deadline.”

No one bothered to warn him about the stairs, and he really did nearly go flat on his face when his shin banged into the first step, sending his weight toppling forward with his bound hands out in front of him - only to have his hands wrenched to the side when the cove pulled hard on his arm, keeping him on his feet, but doubtlessly giving him a few new bruises in the process. He half walked, half was dragged, up the stairs, and then a little ways farther until he was just outright shoved into the unyielding wood of the back of a cart. Head first. He grunted as the edge of the cart jabbed into his stomach as he was pushed down, bent double. Someone grabbed him by the thighs and lifted him up, dumping him into an ungainly pile in the back of the cart.. He shouted a few muffled protests, and struggled a little in the ways a kidnapped man would be expected to act, and was ignored completely. 

In the back of the cart, lying on his back with his legs literally up over his head, Farmer huffed, taking a moment to listen. Sounds of wood creaking from the opposite end from where he’d been dumped told him that at least two people, if not all three, had climbed up onto the seat at the front of the carriage. That suited him just fine. Satisfied, he righted himself and stretched out in the bottom of the cart. 

All he could do now was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -waves- Hi I'm still alive. Sorry for taking so long with this. Hopefully the next chapter will be out before too long.


End file.
